


Thievery

by elementrypengui



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, I don't even guys, I'm Sorry, I'm not sorry, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pre-everything almost, Pre-prison, Slow Burn, Valjean just wants to sing a heart full of love within ten seconds of meeting Javert, appropriate period levels of angst, the rating will likely go up eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementrypengui/pseuds/elementrypengui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of desperation for his sister's child, Valjean attempts an act of robbery; a barely minted policeman intervenes before he can carry out his plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose first off: Valjean is 25 at this point in the book. Javert is supposed to be ten or so years younger, but I'm changing that so he's about 20. Actually, there's a few things I'm altering; I'll just put what's relevant at the end. 
> 
> So, this is influenced by what I know of the book, but it's primarily musical based. And, the fact that the movie cut some of Valjean's lines from the first song pushed me in a different direction that I was too stubborn to move from once I realized. Not too important, I hope!

The settled snow kicks up in windy flurries that scatter in the evening gloom as Javert trudges through his patrol. It is a slum tonight, as it is most nights, but his watch has thankfully been uneventful thus far.

The turn at the next street corner brings him to the square where he is to report to his superior officer before his shift is done and he can return home. Javert does not yet see the man so he settles against the side of a building to wait, taking the opportunity to wrap his arms around himself and burrow as much of his face as he can into the collar of his heavy uniform coat. Even its thickness seems to do little against the fierce winter chill that seems to have sunk in past his skin to his very bones. Javert is never anything but determined to see his duty done, but tonight he looks forward to his fireplace and bed with something approaching longing.

The street is full of muted life, frozen as everyone must be in the cold, but a few carts still litter the sidewalks, offering paltry wares to the workers making their way home. Javert looks on disinterestedly until his eyes catch on something unexpected. More accurately, it is someone, a man a ways down the square, half-hiding behind a wagon and clearly eying one of the food stalls with less than honorable intent. His back is to Javert, but even from the slight distance, it is easy to tell how thin he is for the span of his shoulders and how threadbare his clothing is. Javert is surprised to see that he is young when he catches a brief look of the side of his face, that he is not grizzled and broken like most of the beggars that he deals with on a day-to-day basis.

The man clearly does not see him, concealed as Javert is in the fading light. He also makes no move forward from his hiding spot, though he twice seems to set his shoulders and take a step, as if to steel himself to his task, before withdrawing again. With sudden clarity, Javert realizes that this man has likely not robbed before, that he is just now in the process of convincing himself whether or not to commit to it.

Worse is the fact that Javert can see that the only realistic escape path from the well-lit street would be to break away down a wide alley, where he _knows_ the officer he is waiting on should appear from at any moment, assuming that the man had kept to his own assigned route. He is already late, after all; with every minute that passes, the apparent thief is only more likely to be caught. Even if he escapes Javert, he will run straight into the arms of the approaching officer.

Still, Javert clenches his gloved hands into fists and tells himself that pity is meaningless, that this stranger’s choices are his to make, and that his own responsibility only dictates that he punish the man if he makes the wrong one. It is stupid to think that he can save or even help this person if he is so willing to compromise morality in the first place.

It is thereby surprising to say the least that when the man finally comes to his decision and breaks from his cover, striding purposefully toward the stall, Javert finds himself lurching out from his own darkened patch of street and calling out, “Halt! Police!” The reaction in the cluster of pedestrians is instantaneous, some scatter and some push forward in curiosity, but the man stops to a wooden standstill, which is admission enough of his guilt. He does not hardly twitch, let alone flee as Javert would have predicted, and the latter is able to catch up to him in quick strides.

The man is indeed young, though probably older than Javert himself, and surprisingly handsome, if slightly dirty. This close it is impossible to ignore that he is clearly starving; he is too thin even for his clothes, and there is a shakiness about him that does not seem to stem from shivering. His eyes are wide and frightened. For a few seconds, Javert can only stare, before he remembers himself and grabs the man’s elbow, still expecting him to come to his senses and run.

He still has no time to school himself into speech before a commotion erupts from the back of the gathering crowd and his thus-far absent superior emerges from the direction of the alleyway Javert had previously noted. He has apparently been drawn faster from either Javert’s initial shout or some manner of reaction from the onlookers.

The words on Javert’s tongue again trip into nothingness as the older officer, newly promoted and youthful though he still may be, approaches. He looks over the man still in Javert’s grasp with not a little reproach. “What is this then, Javert? I heard all of the excitement.”

Javert tries hard to make no negative expression at the lack of proper address. “Officer Bouchard, this man was fixing to steal, sir. I caught him preparing to act out his misdeed.”

The stranger unexpectedly says nothing, though he turns pleading eyes from Bouchard to Javert. In turn, Javert fixes him with a hard stare, hoping to convey that it will hardly benefit him to stay silent, and he seems to snap back to himself, switching his attention again back to Bouchard. “Monsieur, I had no such intention,” he says in a rush; his voice is not at all rough and ragged like Javert expects. “I was merely crossing the square on my way home.”

“Sure, sure.” Bouchard says with a sigh. “You have a name?”

“Jean Valjean,” the man answers softly.

“Well, Monsieur Valjean”—the address is clearly mocking—“since you were lucky enough to be caught in time, there is not much we can do, is there?” Bouchard turns briefly to Javert. “Which is something that even the most junior of our officers should know.” Javert fumes silently and averts his gaze, as is his place, though he feels his face heat at the reprimand. “However,” Bouchard continues to Valjean, “suspicion of theft does allow us to search your pockets, on the chance that this was not your first smart idea today.”

“I have done no such wrong!” Valjean protests. Bouchard only stares pointedly, and with a sigh, Valjean turns out his coat pockets and holds his hands free. “See, I told you, nothing.”

“Yes, very well, Monsieur Valjean,” Bouchard states dismissively. “Officer Javert, escort this man home to ensure he gets into no additional trouble. With no evidence, there is hardly the need to bother with a written reprimand.” Again, Javert feels the sting in the rebuke. “Then, I think, your shift is concluded, if you had nothing else to report?”

“Nothing.” More quietly and with eyes still lowered, Javert adds, “Thank you, sir.” Bouchard, however, has clearly already dismissed him too and has begun to turn away.

Javert turns as well, dragging Valjean still by the arm until the other is able to match his pace and then dropping it. Flatly, he asks for Valjean’s address once they are a few paces away. When the answer is given, again softly, Javert stalks off in the correct direction while his charge scrambles to keep up.

\---

Valjean stays silent at first, though he keeps casting Javert nervous glances as they walk, and it is not until two streets later that he makes so much as a noise. “You knew,” he starts, still quiet. “You knew that if you stopped me, you would not be able to arrest me.”

“Obviously.” Javert doubts that he successfully keeps the disdain from his tone.

Valjean nods to himself as if confirming the fact. “If I had gone through with it, I would have run right into him, right?”

Javert gives him a cool look that he sincerely hopes shuts the damned man up at once, but instead it prompts Valjean to halt in his tracks, forcing Javert to do the same, and to turn an earnest expression on him. “Then you have saved me, sir,” he exclaims.

“Speak no more of it,” Javert commands, quickly averting his eyes. He resumes the previous pace, and Valjean again scurries to catch up.

He is able to hold his tongue for three more seconds before he apparently bursts. “But, monsieur, if you had let me, I would have surely done something I would have severely regretted.”

“Regretted because you would have you been caught, you mean.” Javert knows his tone is harsh, but this is always true with criminals, would-be or not.

Valjean looks briefly chastised, then thoughtful. He softly adds, “I would have regretted it either way. Though, perhaps one more than the other.” He sighs and twists his fingers into his sleeves. “I am not.. I do not feel like I am the kind of person you clearly think I am. I just had to do _something_ , you know?”

Javert does not know. He wishes that this man did not see something friendly in him.

Grabbing up Javert’s wrist, Valjean pulls them to a stop again. “My sister’s son is dying.” His tone has grown desperate, impassioned. “We have not had enough for consistent meals in weeks. The boy is sick, and I had to try _something_.” Some element of Javert’s skepticism must show on his face, because Valjean’s expression crumbles and he drops his arm. “I do not care if you believe me; it remains true either way.”

Gaze skittering away, Javert does not answer. Valjean’s assertion is accurate after all; Javert has heard more tragic stories already during his short time as a policeman and often sees them proven false firsthand. He knows that the man is likely seeking some sort of pity or forgiveness for his wrongdoing, little as it matters now, and that he should refuse to dignify it with response. Yet, it is equally apparent that Valjean’s stomach is empty in a way that speaks of long-term neglect and that even if the boy he speaks of is a lie, the other man’s circumstances are obviously wretched.

Finally, he speaks, “Wait here. If I return and find you missing, I will waste no time in making my own way to your address. If that happens, when I find you, I can assure you that you will hardly find it pleasant.”

Surprised, Valjean only nods.

Javert turns the street corner and walks a short distance to a bakery he has been to before.

\---

When he returns, he does so with a large loaf of bread wrapped into a bundle, in which he has slipped a ten franc note. He shoves it at Valjean without comment.

When the other man recovers, his smile is sincere and relieved and painful for Javert to look at. He cannot even know about the money yet, and he is obviously so thankful. It is rapidly apparent that this man does not often associate strangers with kindness. “Thank you, monsieur,” Valjean starts. “I do not.. I do not think you know the good that you have done today.”

“Just go home,” Javert says, and it comes out gruffer than he intends. Valjean takes a step back, but he still looks reluctant, as if he wants to say something more. “ _Go_ ,” Javert says again with irritation, and Valjean does, but not before he throws out one last wide grin.

Javert takes his own path home, feeling a curious mixture of warmth at the man’s gratitude and regret at having involved himself at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned above, things that changed: Valjean broke into a shop in the book. His sister is also supposed to have seven kids, but I'm not going to be able to deal with that, so just the one. I'm also not really sure where this is taking place, but my initial thought was Paris. Montfermeil might work too. Oh, and obviously Javert is no longer going to be a prison guard, assume instead that he became a police grunt.
> 
> I hope this is not too ooc for anyone's tastes. They're just obviously going to be different people without all of the angst, so hopefully it's just different and not bad. Any constructive criticism on this or anything else is welcome!
> 
> I hope too that this isn't an idea that someone has already explored; it's been a long freaking while since I first hunted for les mis fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this took way too long for how ridiculously short this chapter is. I wanted to work ahead some though, so updates should go faster now.

It is long past day break by the time Javert is able to purchase a meager breakfast and wearily settle onto a low stone wall near the police station. The long stint of night watches he has been gifted with recently is hardly forgiving, he decides (not for the first time), though he has been careful to make no ill comment. His duty requires no less, bleary and sleepless as he may feel at the moment.

“You are a most difficult man to find!” an excited male voice suddenly rings out, some way off to his side, and slowly Javert turns to seek out the commotion. He sullenly hopes that it is nothing that he must deal with, for already he is well aware that raised voices often turn into trouble, and is instead surprised that he recognizes the man behind it—a man rapidly approaching him with a bright, wide smile. Curiously, Javert’s stomach seems to flip to be the recipient of it.

He can only blink as Valjean, for it is indeed the man he saved from arrest over a month ago now, draws the last few steps nearer and drops to a seat on his right without any invitation.

“It is good to see you again, my dear benefactor,” Valjean says. His tone is warm and he claps Javert briefly on the arm as if they are old friends.

For a few seconds, Javert can still only stare; he can feel his eyebrows rising. “The would-be thief,” he says belatedly and somewhat stupidly.

Javert expects Valjean’s face to draw tight, to take offense, but he only huffs a small breath and regains a twitch of his smile. “At least it is still ‘would-be’ thanks to you. I have been able to find work again at the docks, so I am indeed guilty of no crime, even in the days afterward.” It is apparently true—Valjean looks healthier, if still careworn at the edges. Something must show in Javert’s expression because Valjean’s eyes seem to sharpen on him. “You are surprised.”

Javert supposes he is. He faces forward again, ignoring Valjean’s gaze. “I did not actually expect any good to come of it.”

He regrets his words instantly for surely Valjean will now ask the very question of _why_ that has plagued him so fiercely throughout the last few weeks. He has no answer.

Valjean, however, says nothing. By the pause, Javert guesses that he is thinking of the question, but for whatever reason he does not voice it. “Well,” Valjean says finally, “you have done good regardless of what you thought, I can assure you of that. If anything, you—” He cuts himself off, abruptly grabbing Javert’s wrist and tugging until he is forced to give back his attention. Valjean’s entire posture has gone from relaxed to rigid and serious in seconds. “You saved my nephew’s life. I did not even know it at the time but he was ill. The money you gave me—with it, we were able to buy him medicine. It is all thanks to you.”

The earnestness with which Valjean says this combined with the tight grip on his wrist leave Javert feeling uncomfortable. “It was nothing.”

“But it was not!” Valjean exclaims. “Why do you insist so? Without your aid—”

Javert cuts him off and pulls free of his grasp. He is tired of this. “You say it is not nothing? Tell me honestly: what good have I done? Have you changed? If you were just as desperate, if your nephew was just as starving, would you not again abandon morality?”

Valjean looks as if Javert has slapped him. “Even so,” he says, “he is alive.”

“And he will die in the gutter same as you, if he even yet lives to adulthood. Nothing has changed.”

“You are wrong.” Valjean’s tone is dangerous.

Javert stubbornly continues, “To improve ourselves, we must look within. Charity is meaningless. What I did was foolish.”

“But, our actions can inspire others and even give them the chance to better themselves. That is what you have done for us, whether you can realize it or not. It was not nothing.”

Javert sighs and lets go of his argument. “I can see I cannot convince you otherwise.”

“You haven’t a chance.” Valjean seems to gain back some of his good humor. “I will simply have to prove you wrong personally.”

He smiles again. Javert cannot figure out how this man is able to be so fickle with his emotions. “I can hardly stop you.”

There is a brief, awkward silence before Valjean suddenly blurts, “You must come to dinner. I still maintain that I owe you much after all, and if I am to prove this to you, you ought to at least meet the boy your actions saved.”

The very idea threatens to send Javert into a mild panic. “I do not think that is wise.”

Before he can even begin to come up with an excuse, Valjean breaks in again. “No, no, you are right. It is hardly—I should not have insisted.” His mouth twists and he falls silent.

The tension between them is thick, but Javert can think of nothing to say.

Eventually, Valjean says, with regret, “I should be leaving for the dockyard. I was on my way there, and I am probably already late.” He looks hesitant, as if he sincerely wants to stay, and Javert cannot figure out _why_ , given how tumultuous this conversation has been.

Javert can only nod and mutter, “Of course.”

Valjean gets to his feet. “Farewell, monsieur. I trust we will meet again soon,” he says with a wry, if perhaps strained, flash of teeth.

Javert wants to say that he sincerely doubts this, that this second meeting was seemingly chance incarnate,  but Valjean takes his leave too quickly.

Left alone again, Javert rubs his fingers into his tired eyes and resolves not to think too closely about this exchange, before beginning the lengthy walk home. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this accidental meeting trope is about reached its end.

In the time it takes for Javert to banish all thoughts of Jean Valjean from his mind, the weather turns warm and balmy once more. He has spent the months in as much solitude as ever; his work demands most of his attention. He volunteers for any task that needs doing and consequently begins to earn a reputation of reliability if nothing else. There is a rumor circulating the precinct that he might soon be promoted despite his youth, and if it earns him as many enemies as admirers, Javert finds he does not care. What he is concerned with is his duty and the ability it gives him to punish the wrongdoers who scoff at society’s laws. Sometimes the ugly thought that he is not that far-removed from them occurs to him, but he always brutally pushes it to the side.

\---

“Thief! Help!”

The faint cry interrupts the conversation Javert is having with a fellow officer about the recently found body by the market. He lets his argument about the woman having been clearly murdered—and how thinking anything else is decidedly foolish—trail off into nothingness. The noise has certainly come from farther down the street.

“Did you hear that?” Moreau mutters. He is younger even than Javert and remarkably impressionable.

“Push down through the crowd. I will go around through the alleys and see if I catch anyone running.” Javert’s tone brooks no argument, and Moreau nods once before hurriedly dashing off.

Javert ducks into the gap leading to the parallel alleyway. He has just turned the corner when he runs quite literally into someone else. Javert is able to remain barely upright, fingers catching on the brick of the building he was turning, but the other person slips in mud and ends up on the ground.

The man’s wide eyes are familiar to him, just as surely are his unkempt hair and ragged clothing.

A purse has bounced from his grip upon impact, and it rests, damning, between them. Javert makes the connection instantly.

Valjean grimaces and then smiles wryly. “Of course it is you: the one policeman I was hoping to _not_ see today. Not that I was hoping to see any, honestly.”

Javert cannot find proper words in response to that—he is so furious—so he takes the two steps to Valjean and hauls the other man to his feet by his upper arm. He clenches at it too roughly, yanking Valjean menacingly close. “After _everything_ you said, everything you _insisted_ upon, you fell to this anyway?” Javert’s voice is low and dangerous.

Valjean tries again to smile, but it is wretched. He has given up. “I had thought you would be more pleased to be right.”

That causes Javert to exhale sharply and drop Valjean’s arm. He takes a step back but putting distance between them does not settle his newly rushing thoughts. It is his duty now to lead Valjean away in handcuffs, to drag him—with force if necessary—into the police station, but Javert finds the idea strangely unappealing. He is startled to realize that he had truly wanted to lose his prior argument with Valjean. To see it culminate in this is like swallowing a lead weight.

For his part, Valjean simply stands there with nary a word. He does not try to bolt, though Javert cannot help but think that the man might have were any other officer in his place. Instead, Valjean waits—waits for Javert to inevitably decide to arrest him. It is as if he has placed his life fully into Javert’s hands without the slightest struggle. It is unbearable.

The sudden sound of someone calling his name scatters Javert’s thoughts. It is Moreau, still on the main thoroughfare; having now likely lost any trail of Valjean, he is apparently backtracking in search of Javert.

Javert clenches his fingers into fists and does not respond to the yell. They are short on time, but he needs precisely that to _think_.

He breaks the trance between himself and Valjean to pick up the dropped purse and pocket it. Valjean appears to brace himself in response but Javert takes no step closer to him.

“There is an abandoned house farther down the way—no more than three twists in the street,” he says with deadly, if slightly hurried, calm. “It is scarred by fire. If the stairs have not fallen through, wait for me on the second floor.” Javert pauses to surmise the likelihood of this being followed, but Valjean still only looks shocked to his core. “Do not run.”

He does not know what he will do if Valjean does not heed the warning.

Valjean only nods shakily in response before taking off down the alleyway without a word. In turn, Javert goes to meet his fellow officer. It is strange but the extra coin in his coat seems heavier than it should.

\---

The staircase in the burnt house is indeed dangerous, with planks missing every few steps, but it is still traversable. The last time that Javert was here, he had been chasing a different thief with more predictable results. For all his thinking, he cannot figure out why Valjean is so unique.

It is perhaps more likely that he is not and that Javert has failed at his post through personal fault.

The idea is aggravating, but nevertheless true; there is something in him that cannot arrest Valjean, not after the blind conviction he showed before. This failure lies in Javert, not in Valjean and his vexing beliefs. Their misdoings are, after all, separate entities; if Valjean’s actions speak against his own words, then so do Javert’s now. The thought that his argument might have influenced Valjean at all causes a somewhat sickening clench in Javert’s stomach. He cannot help but to wonder how much he is to blame, if Valjean might believe that his life is pressed into stone now, if he might have missed some opportunity for good in exchange for this turn again to robbery.

Valjean awaits in the hallway just past the top of the steps, curled into a ball against the far wall. He springs up as Javert approaches, though he seems at a loss for what to say. On that front, if no other, Javert can empathize.

When Javert simply pauses at the landing, Valjean exhales and slides back down to a sitting position, hands loosely curled about his knees. Javert stands and looks his fill for a small while. He still cannot believe that Valjean would not run, that he would wait here hours for him. It speaks of something innately honest and good in the man that Javert finds he cannot overlook. Eventually, he follows suit with Valjean and settles down on the dirty floorboards, albeit with a decent distance between them. Although Valjean is undoubtedly lower than him, it feels wrong to enforce their roles if Javert is not going to properly fit his.

Valjean looks briefly up at him and then returns to studying his worn and muddy boots.

“You can go,” Javert says finally. For whatever reason, under the shock, Valjean looks distraught at the words. Hoping to circumvent discussion of why he is doing this, Javert hurriedly continues, “I will return what you stole to its rightful owner. You are lucky enough to not be thrown in prison—you need not also profit.”

Looking shamed, Valjean nods once. Javert prepares to get to his feet, to flee this entire confusing situation, but Valjean abruptly darts out a hand and lays it over his arm.

“Wait.” He seems to think for a few seconds before arriving at a decision. “Arrest me now. If you let me go like this, I will have no other choice but to come to this again. I do not want this new sacrifice of yours to be for naught.” He looks broken.

Javert lets out an angry exhale. “That is not my concern. You must live with it, not me. Just go.”

“No.” Valjean pulls back to himself. His next words are muffled against his knees. “If I have to go to prison eventually, it might as well be now.”

Irritated and feeling half-swindled, Javert pulls the bag of coin from his coat. “If I give you this, will you leave? With it, you would have another chance at least.” His tone is flat with what he honestly thinks will come of such a chance, but still he offers.

Valjean looks briefly at the purse with something like desperation, as if he is tempted to snatch it and run, but he schools himself into looking up at Javert. “I do not deserve it.”

“Of course you do not.” Javert feels tempted to roll his eyes. “But the man you stole this from is cruel and greedy, and he profits by treating his workers like animals.” So much had been easily discernable from one of the more tiresome conversations of his life and a brief glance around the floor of his factory. The thought suddenly occurs to Javert that this is likely why Valjean chose him for a target in the first place. “What should be hardly matters here, but if it did, he would deserve it even less than you.”

Valjean’s eyes widen a little in surprise, but still he says nothing.

“I am not going to arrest you,” Javert finishes softly. He offers the purse out to Valjean.

With hesitant fingers, Valjean takes it from him, before slowly getting to his feet, as if expecting an objection. When none comes, he pauses, eyes searching for something in Javert’s expression—what exactly he is hoping to find Javert does not know. Valjean looks apologetic, and Javert has a sudden, distressing realization that the man is going to express his regrets or, worse, his thanks. In the face of Javert’s glare, however, Valjean bites his tongue and takes his leave near silently but for the creak of the floorboards.

Javert sits alone in the broken house for long after he goes. He does not honestly think he has changed Jean Valjean’s lot in life with this chance—he is well aware that his motivations are largely selfish and perhaps even guilty in nature. Briefly, he wonders if he should report himself and resign his post—he could after all do so without naming Valjean—but he reasons that this failing is a localized one. If Valjean slips once more, Javert will do all that he can to remedy his freedom. And, to ensure that he is able to do so, he needs the law at his back.


End file.
